


Calla, Stargazer & Other Lilies

by poppywine



Category: BioShock 1 & 2 (Video Games)
Genre: Background Character Death, Betrayal, Frank Fontaine being himself, Gun Violence, Murder, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 08:49:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23848462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poppywine/pseuds/poppywine
Summary: You’ve been living in Rapture for almost three years when you first hear about Atlas. You’ve survived nearly twice that long when he actually kills you.
Relationships: Atlas (BioShock) & You, Frank Fontaine (BioShock) & You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Calla, Stargazer & Other Lilies

You’ve been living in Rapture for almost 3 years when you first hear about Atlas.

You’re manning the counter at the Watched Clock, counting the seconds until your shift ends. Your uniform is stiff with starch and you can’t seem to get comfortable; you’ve pulled at the fabric at least a dozen times and it’s still pinching, bunching up when you move too quickly. Drumming your fingers against the register, you idly watch the stragglers of the lunch crowd finish their meals. 

Suddenly, a young man strides up to the counter, mouth quirked in a lopsided smile. He’s well dressed, but there’s something off: his eyes are just shy of glassy, and he nearly trips over himself in his rush to approach you. Sensing his oddness, you bristle internally, still holding your customer service smile firmly bolted into place. 

“How can I serve you, s-” 

“Hello.” 

He cuts you off immediately, too wired to wait or too rushed to listen. “I’d like a... small coffee?” He sounds almost confused, like he’s been given a script to read, but you oblige him anyways, hands automatically brewing a fresh batch for him. You slide the cup to him across the counter, still wearing your bolted-on smile, but he simply stares back at you, clearly dazed by whatever substance is sluicing through his veins. Trying to stay calm, you grit your teeth and blink at him, trying not to crush the foam coffee cup out of sheer rage. “That’ll be 15¢, _sir_.” He hands you a single dollar and you quickly pass him the change, already imagining him leaving. Before he leaves, though, he pushes a piece of paper into your hands. It bears a few lines of small text and is printed on stiff card stock. Confused, you look up from the slip

to ask him about it, but he’s already leaving, retreating through the double doors faster then you can react. You think about chasing him, abandoning your post to demand answers, but think better of it. Jobs are scarce since the bombing- you don’t want to risk your employment for some silly publicity stunt. It ends up in your apron pocket for the rest of your shift and follows you home the same way. Too lazy to walk to the trash, you end up dropping it on your bookshelf and forgetting it. 

A few months later, you lose your job. 

Your boss takes you in the back room for a ‘talk’, as he awkwardly calls it, but the only way his shoulders sag with the words and your coworkers turn away you know what to expect. You leave the room with a month's pay and a lump in your throat. Your boss had explained it wasn’t your fault; instead, he’d had to cut staff to match the dip in customers since the Kashmir attack. You take the bathysphere line home and keep yourself composed, not even a sniffle, but when your front door finally closes behind you, you explode into a mess of tears, flinging yourself onto the sofa. 

You cry until you think you might be dehydrated. Desperate to distract yourself, you grab the first book you see, leafing through the pages like it’s your salvation. You’re going so fast you almost drop it- instead, a rectangle jumps from the pages and lands perfectly in your lap, stark white against the charcoal grey of your work slacks. Suddenly nervous, you flip the card over in your hands and study the fine, modest lettering on one side. 

_Has you or someone you know fallen on hard times?_

_You are not alone!_

_Atlas saves_

_Come join the cause!_

  
  
  


Underneath, in equally tiny letters, is an address.

You let out a breathless laugh, equal parts disbelief and awe- it seemed like a lifetime ago when that weird customer had come in, yet it was only with his note that you have any hope now. Placing the paper on your dresser, you crawl into bed and kick off your pants, already asleep before you hit the pillow. 

The next morning, you steady your nerves with a generous helping of Irish coffee and carefully dress yourself. If you’re being honest, you’ve no idea what you’re even doing- hoping for a job? Someone to sympathize with? Either way, you tuck the card in your pocket and head out. The card leads you to a building on the other side of the city; near Hestia Chambers, hiding in the shadow of Fontaine’s Home for the Poor. The door is scratched and worn in spots, and before you knock you catch a glimpse of something suspiciously like blood streaked along the bottom of the door. After your second tap the door swings open and a small-boned woman leans out, regarding you with a detached curiosity.

“Poor house is closed.” She says flatly, retreating. 

“I- I know!” You say, holding up both hands in plea. “I just... I got this card, okay? And I lost my job, and uh... yeah.” You trail off lamely, already imagining the door swinging shut in your face. Instead, she perks up some at your words, slim fingers loosening from their grip on the knob.“You did?”

Desperate to keep her listening, you grab the card from your pocket and practically thrust it at her. “Yeah, yeah! Here. Look.” When she takes the paper from you, turning it over with a practiced ease, you curl your now empty hands into nervous fists, ignoring the way your nails bite into the skin. 

Satisfied, she ushers you inside, where she guides you to a worn loveseat with a hand on your elbow. The room is clean, yet sparse: a few others are sitting around, talking quietly or otherwise busy. As you’re taking this in, she perches beside you and clasps your knee; the contact is unexpected and you jolt, but she only smiles at you in response. “Let me tell you about Atlas’s Army,” she says in a whisper, mouth curling up at the edges. Trustingly, you nod.

It is a decision that will change you forever. 

You leave the place your entire paycheck lighter and with a weight off your shoulders. Impatiently, you speed home and throw your life in a suitcase. The rest you sell, store, or share- as a new recruit in Atlas’s army, you don’t have time for sentimentality, especially if you’re really aiming to change the city. 

With the last of your old life in a bag at your side, you retrace your steps to the building once more and throw yourself into a new life in Atlas’s Army. It’s more difficult then you expect, hard work, but it feels _right._ You’re making a change for the working people, the kind who can’t afford mink stoats and silk evening gowns, the people who lost their jobs and houses to the unchecked greed of the reigning elite. You crawl into bed with sore arms and a stiff back, sometimes even a black eye, but you’re always smiling- it’s for the greater good, after all. 

* * *

You’ve been living in Rapture for almost 5 years when Atlas kills you.

You’ve worked your way through the ranks of Atlas’s Army by sheer enthusiasm- you’re unafraid of raids, thievery and sabotage to improve the Army’s odds, and it’s let you climb the chain of command like you were born for it. Right now, you’re a runner- the go between who carries the best valuables and secrets from the source to your base. Eager to deliver your intel, you dart up the rickety stairs of the building and beeline towards Atlas’s office, the priceless knowledge crumpling slightly with the energy in your arms. The knuckles of your fist stop millimetres from the door to his room as you register a voice behind the door.

It’s not Atlas.

You don’t know who it is but it’s certainly a man- the voice is low and coarse, with vowels flattened by a broad accent you can’t quite catch. This is beyond a normal guest visiting Atlas’s quarters- the voice is seemingly alone, with Atlas’s warm brogue strangely absent, yet the naked aggression in his voice leaves little doubt of the strangers’ intent. 

The papers in your hand crumple in your grasp, slicken with sweat; your heartbeat is so loud in your ears that it isn’t until you hear thumping footsteps you consider the noises you’re making don’t exist in a void. Your muscles from the neck down seem to have turned to stone and you’re frozen, locked into place like one of those damn statues Cohen seems to love so much when the lock rattles ominously and you half stumble, half run away from the door. The hallway you’d come down only minutes before seems that much longer than before, _how could it be so much longer now_ and you can almost see the bend of the hall actively pulling away from you before you hear a distinct, unmistakable _click_ of a revolver _._

 _“_ D’you really wanna try me, kid? _”_

The voice hooks you like a fish, digging in and pulling you to a halt. You stagger to a stop against yourself; you can’t bring your head to turn and face him but even so you’re keenly aware of the gaze on you, the invisible prod of the gun barrel angled at your spine. 

“No,” you answer, unable to keep your voice from falling into a whisper. “I don't.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Turn around- eyes _closed_.”

You’ve been in combat before, faced down armed men and women alike, but this is different- you’ve always felt safe here, _shielded_ , and this man with his cruel voice and gun represents a far uglier violation then any violence from Ryan's loyalists. It’s a gargantuan effort to keep your eyes closed as you turn to face him- your survival instinct screams for you to take in what details you can, and your eyelids flutter at the internal conflict. 

The stranger notices and clamps your arm with a grip of steel, dragging you into Atlas’s quarters and pushing you into a corner, hard enough your forehead bounces against the drywall with a hollow _thunk_. He rips the papers from your clammy hands and for a moment there’s silence as he scans them, then clicks his tongue with irritation before settling into Atlas’s desk with an ease that makes your stomach churn. You hear him fiddle with the phone there, dragging a finger around the rotary numbers before falling quiet once more. Faintly, from your prison in the corner, you can hear the ringing coming from the other end of the line. 

“Hello?” The voice on the other end is tinny, distorted by fraying wires and cheap plastic, but your heart leaps into your throat in recognition- it’s another Atlas supporter, Kenneth, a greenhorn at best but with wide eyes earnest enough to sabotage any attempts at deception. You hardly know him but your heart pounds pathetically at the idea of rescue. A fragile sort of hope flickers to life in your chest.

That is, until the strange man starts to speak in Atlas’s voice. 

It’s disorienting to the point of cruelty; that warm voice you’ve come to know and trust over the course of _years,_ coupled with the sharp humiliation of a gun aimed at your skull. You can’t help it: something in you snaps at the impossibility of it, the inhumanly perfect mimicry of someone you’ve dedicated your life to, and you turn around so quickly you’re nearly sick with it. Your eyes scan the dingy room, drinking in the space around you. Your panicked mind takes in the scene in pieces, too scattered to comprehend it in a whole- the wide shoulders hunched over the phone, the dark hair and suspenders. 

It’s Atlas. 

It’s Atlas _himself_ and the knowledge of it forces the air from your lungs, knocks it all out of you in a wordless squeak as you lean limply against the wall. At your commotion he turns, still holding the receiver to consider you with detached regard, like you’re a picture that’s fallen off the wall. Meeting your eyes, his thumb strokes the burnished surface of the pistol still in his hands in warning, daring you to make a noise. Kenneth’s voice on the other end catches his attention and he offers you a warning look before turning his eyes away again, index finger tapping slowly against the receiver as if holding you hostage is the most boring thing he’s done in weeks. Meeting your gaze again he offers you a slow smile, eyes crinkling as if he knows a joke you’re not privy to before speaking into the phone once more.

“Shame ‘bout the runner though.”

Something in you goes cold at his words, the way his rough hands toy with the gun barrel, spinning it idly.

“Damn loyalists, always taking our best people from us.” At that, he winks all mocking joviality, and the air seems that much heavier between you. 

When he very deliberately hangs up the phone and turns back to you, a scream works its way up your throat. 

It never gets the chance.


End file.
